


close quarters

by boleynqueens



Category: 16th Century CE RPF, The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-04-13 14:23:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14114256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/pseuds/boleynqueens
Summary: 'and they were roommates!''oh my god...they were /roommates/.'





	1. intro

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Flatmates](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11401179) by [essequamvideri24](https://archiveofourown.org/users/essequamvideri24/pseuds/essequamvideri24). 



> 'and they were ROOMMATES!' -- iconic unknown girl with a backpack, 2016
> 
> quoting essequamvideri24 (again!) since i share the sentiment for this fic and she put it so well:
> 
> 'please don't take this too seriously. writing this is like doodling on scratch paper, just something to stretch my fingers for fun.'

It begins on a Saturday, a few minutes before noon and heavy with blooming June heat.

It begins at a threshold, like many new things do-- but one that is, unexpectedly, ajar.

But there's the number from the Facebook posting on the group page for UCLA rooms for rent, glinting in tacked gold right above the eyehole-- 526, and so Anne knocks, holding the door handle with her unoccupied hand so that it doesn't swing open under her firmly beating fist-- _being mistaken for a burglar would not be a good start_.

There is no answer, but she hears music, and water running.

She pushes the door open, calling out a greeting and, hearing no response; she finally decides to bite the bullet and walk inside.

To the left of coats on hooks on the wall is a small wooden table with matching chairs, to the right is an open-plan living room occupied by a flat screen television and gaming console, set up to face a squashy-looking, red suede couch.

The music, along with the sound of water skidding across stainless steel, is winding its way from a doorway hung with a beaded curtain.

Anne leans her back against a bookshelf pushed up near it, hovering-- usually she is not so bold, but circumstances have made her so and she wants to get this interview over with; so that she can know if she's wasting her time here.

The water stops running, and speech from what she assumes is the kitchen becomes audible:

"I won't loan you money for it, but--"

" _When_ did I ask you to?"

The second voice is on the higher side, although clearly still man's judging by the timbre.

"Would you _please_ let me finish?"

"Would you _please_ stop putting words in my mouth?"

"Would someone _please_ pass me the red flakes," a different, third male voice asks, "it's like _all_ the way over by you two --"

"Not unless you want it thrown, Charles--"

"What I was _going_ to say," interrupts the first voice-- gravelly but with a pleasant lilt, lower than the second, higher than the third, "was what I _can_ do is refer a third roommate that will prove to be _far_ more reliable than the former--"

"So that one of your interns or friend's kids-- or, both, they _do_ tend to overlap--  can spy on me and report back to you? Pass, Dad."

"That you would think-- that such a thing would even cross your _mind_ \--"

"Oh, my _God_ \--"

"--is insulting, and frankly, I have far too many things that already claim my time-- the idea that I would even have the spare moments necessary to spin such a scheme is laughable _._ All I am doing is offering you _again_ , what I offered you originally-- an offer that, had you taken, would've left you in a far better predicament than you find yourself in now."

" _There_ it is!"

"There is _what_ \--"

"What you _really_ came here to say: you told me so. Well, alright-- you told me so. You get to hear it from me!"

Anne waits for a response, with bated breath-- she finds herself strangely invested in this faceless face-off despite a total lack of context, straining so hard to hear the next word (instead, running water again) that she misses footsteps entirely, and nearly jumps a mile out of her skin when the beaded curtain rattles and bursts open.

 _Well, there's one face_ \-- looking as startled as she feels, greyly blue and heavily lidded eyes wide, appearing especially large set as they are within such a thin face; the bridge of a hooked nose mirrored on either side by highly set cheekbones, slender mouth pursed.

Pinned under his scrutiny; she nonetheless offers not more than a nod of acknowledgement and a raised eyebrow when he does not return it, instead calling out:

"Henry, did you forget to introduce me to _another_ one of your girlfriends?"

He is the first voice, she notes, before the curtain rattles yet again, parted by a tall man gnawing on a pizza crust.

" _Her_?" he guffaws, shaking his head, "There's no way-- _way_ too skinny."

"Right. Well, skinny or not , I'm here for the _interview_ \--"

"The _wha_ \-- oh, shit," he grumbles, one cheek bulging, lumbering over to the couch, "is it noon already? Here, let me-- get you a chair."

She watches as Charles (by process of elimination-- she recognizes his voice as the third--Henry must still be in the kitchen) pulls one from one of the corners of the living room-- a fold-up, one of those polyester monstrosities that parents use for the grassy sidelines of soccer games, struggling to open it up in front of the couch.

The first man shakes his head, but walks over to help him; and so she watches them make a go of it with her folder held against her chest, arms crossed.

"When someone is my girlfriend, I _do_ introduce you-- when they are not, I do not _bother_ ," shouts the second voice, revealing himself through the doorway only to freeze in his tracks, panting.

"Hello," he says, slowly, gaze shifting towards the living room, then behind her.

He shakes his head as well-- _déjà vu, he and his father have the same ticks,_ she thinks: the mouth making a small curl, the exasperated brow furrow (otherwise there's not much of a resemblance, save for the nose shape and the brilliance of their eyes…the former being of goldenly red hair, broad-shouldered and chested, the latter brunet and narrowly so)-- before walking past her, murmuring _excuse me_ , and shutting the door to the apartment.

"Are you from Facebook?" Henry asks once facing her again, rubbing the nape of his neck.

"Yes."

"Right. So--"

"Shall I sit, then?" she asks, pointing to the newly crafted chair.

"Sure."

* * *

"It's a really nice offer, sir but I think we have uh-- probably like, different criteria than you do," Charles says, scratching the stubbled slope of his jaw, legs crossed at the ankle from his seated spot on the couch, "for interviews, y'know?"

"Didn't you say Mom was waiting for you in the car, anyway?"

"Yes, you are right."

Anne wasn't, exactly expecting them to _hug after all that, or anything_ , but she's not really expecting what happens next, either, which is Henry's father meeting him where he stands a few paces behind the couch, extending his hand, and Henry, meeting his gaze with a lowered head (he's half a foot on him, at least) and taking it-- one shake of the hands, two nods, and then broken.

"Charles."

Charles turns his head and salutes him.

In lieu of acknowledging the gesture, he offers a blank expression before turning and walking towards the door, Henry leading him there and opening it for him before he leaves.

* * *

Once Henry and Charles are both seated on the couch, they waste no time, overlapping each other:

"Do you--"

"Do you--"

"You can go first," Henry says magnanimously, leaning back and crossing his arms.

"Thank you," he says, then turns to face Anne before yielding his question:

"So. Do you have any, like… hot friends?"

"Charles," Henry says, placing one elbow on the armrest and pinching the bridge of his nose, sighing, " _really_?"

"What? It's a perfectly valid--"

"It's fine," Anne says, smoothly, smiling ( _it is…annoying_ , _actually_ , and would be enough to make her get up and leave in different circumstances but, well-- those aren't the ones she's in), "yes, I have some…of those."

The hottest girl in the pictures on her profile page is probably her sister, Marietta, who is, coincidentally, _the gayest to ever gay-- hopefully, he won't dig far enough to find that out_ (although…if she's judging a book by its cover-- _its rugged, impishly and messily handsome frat-boy cover , that is_ \-- _that'd probably encourage him if anything_ ).

"Oh, word? Is there a way I can like, _verify_ that, or--"

" _Yeah_ ," she says, struggling to keep a neutrally pleasant expression, "for sure, you can check my Facebook page."

"Right! What's your--"

"It should be pretty easy to find, given that we messaged last night."

"Right, right, right…Anne Boleyn?"

"Yes, that one was me."

As he occupies himself with tapping around and scrolling down the screen of his phone, Henry takes over, asking the more typical and expected questions: proof of income, which she offers photocopies of from her folder, proof of a previous lease, etc.  

"Did you have a roommate at your last place?" Charles asks, still otherwise fixated on his phone.

"Oh, that's actually a good question--"

"What do you mean, ' _actually a_ '--"

"If you did, would they give you a reference?" Henry asks, giving his roommate a condescending pat on the knee whilst still avidly returning her gaze.

"I did," Anne says carefully, swallowing away some dryness as she cups her crossed knee with both hands, "but it was…a somewhat complex situation."

"You were…subletting, or--"

"They were-- are, my ex."

" _Oooh_ ," Charles says, clucking his tongue, finally interested enough to glance up from his phone, "didn't end well?"

"Please don't hit on our roommate candidate, Charl--"

"I am _not_ hitting on her, I am _being_ sympathetic-- chill," he says, turning back to face Anne before asking, "So you don't was us to call them because it ended badly, right?"

"I mean, I would _hope_ he wouldn't lie just to make me look bad, but…it didn't end… _well_ , no--"

"You cheat? No judgment, we've _all_ been there--"

"No, ' _we_ ' have not--"

"Uh, yes, _we_ have, flirting _is_ cheating," Charles counters, sliding his phone back into the pocket of his frayed sweats and crossing his arms.

"No, it's really not--"

"It's ended most of your relationships, so it might as well be."

"I didn't cheat on him," Anne snaps, loudly (enough so that both men look away from each other and back to her with sheepish expressions), throwing both hands up emphatically, "I just don't know what he'll say, so…I will give you his number if you'd like, I would just appreciate you two taking whatever he says about me with a grain of salt-- that's all." 

There is some sheepishly mumbled assent, which rather makes Anne feel like a schoolteacher ( _why_ the onus seems to have fallen on her, the interviewed, to steer these two back on track, rather than the interviewers themselves is…she cannot guess): _that seems reasonable_ from Henry, a _sorry_ from Charles, followed by an offer to tour the apartment.

* * *

Charles escorts her towards her her car with loping strides, hands in pockets. The midday sun is warm upon her bare shoulders, her keys jangle from their ring, bouncing on her fingers; the sound mixes with Charles chattering about their former roommate, who left without notice, apparently-- _fucking musicians_ , he grouses, _they're flakier than croissants, the lot of them._

The remaining leg of the tour, which took place in the very kitchen that had held such fraught conflict, was interrupted by several looping rings of Henry's phone ( _Sorry_ , he had said, _it's my Mom, I need to take this_ , only to leave to his own bedroom and not return… Anne was able to make out a greeting, then, _Well, I know I did, but I didn't think you would tell him,_ receding footfalls and a slammed door) and cut short-- Charles had told her that was about it anyway, asked her where she'd parked and offered her company for the walk.

Anne stops where she's parked alongside the sidewalk and clicks the doors unlocked with a push of the button.

"Look, if he seemed cold," Charles says now, abruptly, heels hanging over the edge of the sidewalk,  "don't like…take it personally. I swear he's usually not."

She glances up at him, brow furrowed, drawing her outstretched hand back towards herself.

Anne feels ( _illogically_ , as she's _perfectly aware_ \-- but one cannot deny a feeling) wounded by his statement-- _had_ he been cold to her, and had she been too foolish to pick up on it? She prides herself on being adept at reading others, _but maybe_ \--

"He's always on edge after talking to his dad, is all," he continues with a shrug, "and…vice versa."

"Okay," she says, walking past him to pull open the front door of her car, "cool, thanks."

"Oh, hey, I didn't mean…"

Anne throws her purse in, then holds the edge of the open door, both of them now standing at the sidewalk's edge (although as she's the one facing the sun, she shields her eyes with one hand to look at him properly).

"I meant," Charles says, rubbing the dark half-moons under his similarly dark eyes before clasping his hands together, under his dimpled chin, "not to…misinterpret that. If I were you, I wouldn't turn my phone off, is what I'm saying."

He smiles warmly, the corners of his eyes crinkling with it, the brown there warm, too.

"Don't turn my phone off?"

"Expect a call from us, yeah."

"Even if my ex says I'm a psycho that broke his heart?"

"Even then…I doubt anyone else is going to offer us three months' rent upfront, so--"

"With a contract," she reminds him firmly-- her present situation may be challenging, but she's not _quite_ desperate enough to be stupid-- at least, she hopes not.

"Yes, of course, with a contract-- shouldn’t be an issue. One of his friends is a lawyer, so we should be able to draw one up for free…so is his brother, for that matter, so."

"Okay," she says, offering a small smile in return before angling her way into the driver's seat, "I won't turn my phone off."

* * *

And she doesn't turn it off, or even set it on airplane mode-- not even when she's charging it, for the rest of the day, or night.

During that Friday night, Anne sits on a large pillow on the floor of her sister's living room, cross-legged, with an open notebook on her lap, her phone next to her like a friend upon its own pillow.

She is surrounded on all sides by her own boxes (a life packed, hastily), but the list she makes now, of the dates of bills that need to be paid and subscriptions she needs to cancel, helps her feel a bit less chaotic on the inside. The scented candles she's lit, all along the length of the coffee table, also help in that regard.

That is, until her phone rings, flashing an unwelcome Caller ID.

She picks it up after the first ring, hoping it doesn't wake up her sister or her roommate.

"Anne!"

"Harry," she says, cupping her hand around her mouth and the receiver, "you have _got_ to stop calling--"

"I'll break it off, I swear I--"

"Well, do that if you want, but don't do it for my sake-- I'm not going to come back if you do--"

"Please…I just need you to _listen_ to me."

Anne waits, nothing but his shallow, tearful breaths gasps on the other end, pressing two fingers to her temple.

"Are you still there?" he asks shakily.

"Yes, I am still here."

"Okay-- you have to understand that I was planning on doing that, the entire time, I just had never--"

"I don't really care, because the time to tell me was _well_ before we moved in together--"

"Who are you talking to?"

Anne turns around to find Marietta standing nearby, her tall figure, golden skin and hair illuminated by the light she's flicked on from the hallway, hand on one hip.

"I'm almost done," Anne says, putting the earpiece against her shoulder, "promise, I'm sorry if I--"

"Is it _him_?"

"Um--"

"Give it to me."

"Marie," Anne tuts (hoping the usage of her childhood nickname will endear her sister to caution, or at least softness), "I really don't think that's--"

But she's pried it from her hand before she can finish the sentence, and Anne's too tired to protest, really, so she falls back against the pillow, docile as a lamb.

The candlelight glints against the silver jewelry adorning Marietta's earlobes and cartilage, her words biting as she paces:

"Stop calling, you _fucking_ freak-- no, because the _only_ reason I haven't told her to block your number is that I figured you'd just end up calling everyone else that knows her anyway…"

Anne sighs, feeling unmoored on the floor, she doesn't register when Marietta hangs up, and can only nod and apologize with no real sincerity when Marietta's roommate eventually storms out and berates both of them for waking her up, grumbling that they promised that _this would be temporary_ , sweeping a hand at the boxes on the floor like they're proof to the contrary.

* * *

 An hour or so later, curled up on her side on Marietta's futon, Anne falls asleep hoping (not for the first time) that things will be better by tomorrow. 


	2. move-in

Henry is mopping the sweat off his brow with a hand-towel, sitting on the edge of one of the dining room chairs with one leg outstretched on another, when Charles trundles in, wiping sleep from his eyes with the backs of his palms.

He's rarely up before noon, given the nature of his job—not during the summer, anyway, or any other time that school's off— understandable given that he often doesn't return till 6 AM or later, so Henry notes the aberration with curiosity.

"So," he says, yawning and shuffling into the entryway of the kitchen on that side, "we didn't really settle on anyone last night, but I figured—"

"Jason," Henry calls out, unlacing a running shoe.

Charles shuffles back to the living room, pop-tart in hand, line between his black brows deepening.

" _Who_?" he asks, squinting and taking the remaining chair not occupied by Henry or his feet.

Henry rolls his eyes, kicking the shoe off.

"The first guy we interviewed?"

" _Hot Guy_?"

"That's not…his name—"

"I do not want Hot Guy living with us, for reasons that can should be obvious to you… although," he says, pointing to him with one chewed point of pastry, "I guess I can see why _you_ would—"

"That was, " Henry says, cheeks reddening, balling a sock up and tossing it at his head (which Charles— _deft as ever_ — misses by ducking), "a _phase_ —"

" _Sure_ , we'll call that a very long— and French—'phase', but my point stands. I do not want to bring women home and have them see Hot Guy—"

"His name is _Jason_ —"

"And neither should you."

"Have some confidence, Charles!"

"I have plenty of confidence, but I'm not blind, fuck! He can hang out on a billboard; I don't want him hanging out in my apartment."

" _Fine,_ then the other one."

"Yeah, Anne."

"No," Henry says, getting up from his chair, "the last one we interviewed."

Charles follows him as he leaves the dining room, calling out in clear incredulity:

"The one that _smelled_?"

"He did not smell _that_ bad," Henry chides, rounding the corner of his open door.

"Then your nostrils must be defunct."

"Honestly," he snaps, peevishly selecting a collection of clean garments from the hamper atop his bed, "you're such a jerk sometimes, maybe he just forgot to wear deodorant or something."

* * *

"He was _not_ 'forgot to wear deodorant' bad, he was 'never seen a bar of soap' bad," Charles says, standing against the doorjamb of their shared bathroom as Henry washes his face, "so what, exactly, is your issue with the _first_ person we interviewed?"

He turns the tap off and sighs.

"Nothing," he says, finally, walking over to the shower and yanking the curtain back, "I just didn't get…a good vibe."

"You didn't get a 'good vibe'? What does that even mean?"

"I just don't think she'll be a good fit, that's all," Henry says, turning the water and showerhead on before pulling the curtain back (it'll be a full two minutes before it changes from ice-cold, as they were unfortunate enough to learn), "sometimes you just know these things."

"Well… _I_ didn't get a bad vibe."

"But you suck at reading vibes," Henry says, hanging clean towels on the rack, "and I don't."

" _Example_?"

"You're the one who told me we should pick Tom to be our third roommate," Henry says, back against the wall, arms crossed, "look how _that_ turned out."

"Sure, but _you're_ the one that loaned him money."

"He paid me back!"

"He paid you back _half_ of it, and it took him, like, a _year_ to do even that—"

"Whatever, can we talk about this later?" he asks, jerking his head towards the shower.

"Sure, _whatever_ , but soon, a'ight? Time is of the essence."

* * *

"Jesus, have you been there the whole time?"

"Yes," Charles answers, sitting at the foot of Henry's bed and promptly shutting the ( _boring-ass_ … ** _who_** _cares that much about the minutiae of medieval weaponry?_ ) book of his he read whilst waiting, "now, what's the _real_ reason you don't want her to move in, because you're being hella cagey and we don't have a lot of time before rent is—"

"You'll just sleep with her!"

" _What_?"

"And I don't want to deal with all the drama that will ensue afterwards, so—"

"No, I won't!"

"Well, the fact that you're _so_ fixated on her as a choice kind of makes me think you will!"

"That's not a good enough reason to veto her, and I could say the same thing about you, anyway. Your first immediate choice was Jason, so maybe _you_ just want to sleep with _him_ —"

"I would not _sleep_ with Jason," Henry huffs, swiping the book from his hands, "although, I would maybe ask him for his fitness routine."

Henry places it back on the towering pile of books on his desk, carefully, before turning back to meet his friend's glare.

" _What_?"

"Give me a good reason for vetoing the only candidate amongst the three that not only A) smells nice," Charles says, ticking the first point on his thumb, "B) will not bring any romantic competition—"

"How do you know she's straight?"

* * *

"Okay, A) don't try to distract me," Charles says, ticking off on his opposite hand as a dreamily distant look settles over his face, before shaking his head and continuing, "and B) if you're implying that she's hotter than I am we're _gonna_ fight about that later—"

"Guess we will!"

"—and _C_ ) because I looked at her profile and it said so—"

"Oh my _God_ , you are _such_ a stalker!" he says, laughing and covering his mouth with one hand, "I was _right_ , you _do_ want to sleep with—"

"And _first **C**_ )… can pay three months rent upfront!"

Henry shrugs, a stern look on his face, then takes a seat at his office chair, bending his damp head and tousling it with the towel he has on hand.

"Okay," Charles continues, tone easy and smooth (since _he is clearly_ … _in one of his obstinate moods_ … _for some fuck-ass reason_ ), "well, I don't want to live with someone that's going to steal all my dates without even trying, and I don't want to live with someone that reeks, so like…what are we gonna do, man?"

Henry leans back in the chair, towel in his lap, and shrugs again.

Charles takes his phone out of his pocket.

* * *

"What are you doing?" Henry asks, evenly, brow drawn together as Charles brings the phone up to his ear.

* * *

"Hello?"

"Hi! Anne?"

"Yes, this is she."

Anne hears a knock so loud that she winces and moves the phone away from her ear, still able to make out the general sounds of a struggle and Charles grunting.

"Is everything okay? Is this a bad time, maybe you should call back later—"

"No, everything's fine," he says, panting, "this is Charles, by the way—"

"Yeah I know, I saw the Caller ID."

"Oh, cool, so— just a second, God, sorry about this," he says, and for a bit she hears nothing but white noise and then a slammed door, a metallic turning before she hears him pick up again:

" _Any_ way," he continues, still sounding a bit breathless, "just calling to say you got the place!"

"Oh my God, _really_?  _Thank_ you, that's _so_ good to—"

"Yeah, absolutely, so text me the details about when you want to move your stuff so that one of us can let you in—got to go!"

* * *

Charles jumps away from their front door and turns around as it swings open.

"I'm going," Henry says, in a voice that is equal parts quiet and intense, as well as preternaturally calm, hand braced against the doorjamb, "to _kill_ you."

"But then you will, yet again, be short on rent by a third."

"I'm going," he says, taking a deep breath, "to _think_ about killing you."

" _There_ you go."

* * *

 _Whatever_ — Charles can't bring himself to regret the decision, even if it earns him stony silence for a day or so.

It was a brilliant stratagem, that could _only_ be concocted by him, or anyone else that knows Henry as familiarly as the back of his own hand ( _of which there are very few_ ).

He's trapped him within the reins of his own well-mannered instincts; his own burning need to be liked by absolutely everyone (even total strangers) will totally prevent him from ever telling Anne he doesn't want her to move in with them to her face, no matter _what_ he says to Charles otherwise.

But, in the end, he doesn't say anything otherwise, and just sulks instead—he probably knows, deep down, that even if he threatens to do so, Charles won't believe him and will call his trump card simply upon her arrival.

* * *

On the bright side, Anne's new bedroom is, at least, furnished (although not really in the way Anne would have set it up) due to its former inhabitant's hasty departure, as well as being connected to her own private bathroom.

On the flip side, this means she pays a bit more than a third of the rent.

And that she has a plethora of posters to untack, starting with _this_ one of The Doors...

"Do you want a tour?"

Anne looks over her shoulder to Charles and smiles.

"Didn't you already give me one?"

"Nah, move-in tour's different. C'mon."

* * *

"This," Charles says, opening the top drawer of the kitchen island, all the way until it locks, "is the Weed Drawer."

It is, fittingly, full of Altoids tins (that she assumes…are not full of mints), rolling papers, lighters, and a pack of cigarettes.

"It's honor system," he says, closing it, "if you're taking a pinch it's whatever, but if any more just like…replace it, or leave cash there."

She nods, bemused since she's not really planning to partake, and follows him to the dishwasher, where he picks up a glass jar full of coins and holds it up.

"This…is the Swear Jar. Also honor system."

"25 cents for taking the Lord's name in vain," Henry says, walking in with a bag of groceries and hefting it onto the island, "50 cents for second-tier swears, and a dollar for HBO level."

"Although we never get _too_ bad," Charles says reassuringly, "I mean…we have mothers, after all."

 _As does everyone on Earth_ , she wants to say, but instead asks:

"What do you do when it's full? Charity?"

"Charity?" Charles scoffs, putting it down, "No. We _are_ a charity…no, we go to Coinstar and get a gift card. Usually Amazon, last time it was for those," he says, pointing to the wall behind her.

Anne glances behind her shoulder, to see two lightsabers crossed like swords on the wall, held up by hooks within a hollowed-out picture frame.

"I see."

* * *

> **From: Charles Brandon**
> 
> **To: Anne Boleyn**
> 
> **Sent June 29, 2018, 3:00 PM**
> 
> BTWs…tell your sister 'sorry' about the whole like…hitting-on-her thing?
> 
> **From: Anne**
> 
> **To: Charles**
> 
> **3:02 PM**
> 
> She says 'it's ok-- it was funny.'

* * *

It had been, really—after helping Anne carry multiple boxes up and down the elevator, with his valiant assistance, he had asked Marietta how much she lifted. She had answered.

His follow-up question: _Are you single?_

Her response: _I'm **gay** …_

And his: [nervous laughter] _O **kay**._

* * *

**Saturday**

Late the next night, she comes back from dinner with her brother to see a pair curled up on the couch (made up of a woman she's never seen before, and Henry), _Titanic_ playing on the TV.  

She tiptoes around them to the kitchen, getting herself a glass of water, she offers a small and awkward wave that the woman returns in an enthusiasm that is tenfold to Anne's:

"Hi! How are you?"

Anne stops midstep, turns and answers, "Fine, thank you—how are you?"

"Good! Are you…Anne?"

She nods, and the woman (incidentally, rosy, blonde, and supremely lovely in an undeniable way that makes Anne feel a vague pang of envy) _beams_ with a smile that is pure sunshine.

"I've heard so much about you," she gushes, as Henry (who looks flushed, _probably due to the glass of red wine in front of him on the coffee-table, empty save for the dregs_ ) toys with a piece of her hair, "I'm Beth."

 _So much from…whom_?  

"Nice to meet—"

"Oh, _sorry_ ," Beth says, shuffling closer to Henry's side, "would you like to sit?"

"I don't want to intrude—"

"Please," she says, gesturing to the empty cushion.

 _Well_ …the soles of her feet _are_ sore from the heels (it was a nice restaurant— George had insisted it be a place with expensive champagne, for a proper 'Fuck Him and Good Riddance celebration'—his words), and putting them up on a footrest sounds _awfully_ tempting to her at this moment…

"Sure," she says finally, with a shrug, "if you're sure you don't mind..."

"Not at all!"

Henry says nothing, but her feet are screaming, so she sits, carefully easing her heels off and putting her feet up, leaning back in her seat.

They start to whisper to each other and leave together, holding hands, about halfway through the film.

Anne turns it off, and preemptively puts in her earbuds, pressing her rain sounds playlist before shuffling into her bedroom.

* * *

 _That_ is the night that she learns that Henry is… ** _loud_**.

_Like…earth-shatteringly, breaking the sound barrier levels, of **loud.**_

Anne puts a pillow over her head, lying on her side, firmly— _much good it does!_

* * *

 

**Sunday**

Normally she is loathe to get up early on a weekend, but she has an early doctor's appointment that she'd set her alarm for ages ago. This morning it is one she hits snooze on several times, before reluctantly scraping herself out of bed and walking to the kitchen in her pajamas and a hastily thrown-on robe.

There is a full pot of coffee on the counter, and she treats it as one would a stream found in a desert they'd wandered in for days: one cup, then two, then three…

Henry walks in, buttoning one of the cuffs of his shirt, stopping in his tracks in the doorway.

She does not bother with a greeting from the small table she sits at in the corner, and neither does he— she's certain she looks like crap, but cannot bring herself to care, considering _it's his fault, anyway!_

He makes his way over to the coffee pot, lithely lifting up the empty glass and peering into it.

"Can you," he says, clipped, sliding it back in place, " _pleas_ e refill this if you're going to finish it?"

"Sorry," she says tonelessly, bringing her cup to her lips and peering at him over its rim, "didn't get much sleep."

His brows arch nearly to his hairline as he leans against the edge of the counter, fumbling again with his cuffs:

" _Earplugs_ help."

 _Not sounding like a **porn star** helps_ , she wants to snipe, but she settles for grinding her teeth instead.

He looks very nice (incidentally, Anne finds this supremely irritating), clean-shaven and in a Robin's egg blue button-down shirt that brings out the musculature of his chest and the color of his eyes, a piece of damp hair gleaming over one of them, a single silver tie wrapped around his [long and thick throat](https://books.google.com/books?id=AcfUAAAAMAAJ&lpg=PA117&ots=wqI1zooTLX&dq=his%20throat%20long%20and%20thick%201515&pg=PA117#v=onepage&q=his%20throat%20long%20and%20thick%201515&f=false).

"Are you going to work?" she asks.

"Church," he says, glancing at his watch, and then the coffeepot, ruefully, "with no coffee, I suppose."

* * *

The next week, and then the next, she meets two other women there are guests of Henry's— she's beginning to get the sense that his father's note of exasperation during '… _another_ one of your girlfriends?' was not an overreaction, but wholly understandable.  

* * *

“ _Ils sont comment, tes colocataires_?" her father asks.

Anne is sitting at the dining room table, elbows on it in a manner he would scold her for if he were there…luckily, this is not a Skype call.

" _Ils sont tous les deux étudiants, comme moi_ ," she answers, knowing this will please him (it has the added bonus of being true…she's not entirely sure why her father and his generation have decided the only trustworthy people her age are enrolled in university, but _c'est la vie_ ).

" _Un travaille dans un bar, et est plutôt sympa jusque maintenant_ ," Anne continues, " _L’autre..._ "

 _L'autre_ is folding laundry on the couch currently, _l'autre_ goes on _a run at the ass-crack of dawn every morning_ , yet goes to bed late, _l'autre_ flinches when 'Dad' comes up on his Caller ID and presses 'ignore', but picks up when 'Mom' appears on the screen after the first ring, _l'autre_ visibly notices when she herself flinches upon seeing a certain name on her own Caller ID (worrying a generous bottom lip, gazing at her with what she would name 'open concern', if she didn't know any better—given how he's never given her more than superficial politeness since her move here, her best guess is that it's actually just annoyance)… _but_ if Anne tells her father any of this, he will think she is certifiably insane and unhealthily obsessed.

 _"L'autre_ _je sais pas ce qu’il fait. Juste qu’il a une collection de petites copines, apparemment,"_ she says drily, figuring this will earn her a chuckle (it does).

“ _Donc, il est pas mal alors_?” he asks wryly.

“ _Pas mal_?"

Henry is, she cannot deny this (much as she would like to) — _he shouldn't be, really, with that nose_ , but all it does is add a certain handsome character and strength to what would otherwise be just-another-pretty-face (it's a sort of… _Princess Diana effect_ ).

He is, in essence, [the answer to the formula of beauty](https://autrenecherche.tumblr.com/post/171913823885/in-1529-when-henry-was-38-years-of-age-the): an angelic face graced with eyes that are as searing and vivid as a summer sky, skin that is clear and fair and bright, symmetrical features and hair almost luxurious in its thickness and rare, fairytale color, with legs for miles and a body with no visible shortcomings (in height or figure; and she has, unfortunately, happened upon him shirtless already, as they are currently experiencing a heat wave in Los Angeles, so she feels she's _a pretty good judge_ )…with a voice as sweet and angelic as his face, and charm in spades anyway, Anne figures he would appear handsome even if he was not.

 " _Ouais_ ," she says primly, clearing her throat, " _il est pas dégueu. Mais il le sait bien, donc ça le rend un peu moins charmant_ …”

Thomas Boleyn laughs again—she's glad to have made _someone_ do so; even if it is just her father and _he kind of has to_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all know that scene in the pilot of tudors where henry and bessie blount are....you know...Rated M and the guards are standing stony faced?
> 
> y e. 
> 
> (also there's one where they're imitating his sounds and the woman's that i always laugh at....where is Tudor Series from the servants' perspectives, I ask you...)
> 
> translation for the French (thanks to my friend margaux-- @towyns on tumblr!! much thanks and love, babes <3 ):
> 
> “Ils sont comment, tes colocataires?"  
> What are your roommates like?  
> “Ils sont tous les deux étudiants, comme moi. Un travaille dans un bar, et est plutôt sympa jusque maintenant.
> 
> "They're both students, like me. One is a bartender, and pretty nice so far."
> 
> (the bartender is Charles)
> 
> “L’autre... je sais pas ce qu’il fait. Juste qu’il a une collection de petites copines, apparemment.”
> 
> "The other one...I don't know what he does. Just that he seems to have a revolving door of girlfriends."
> 
> “Donc, il est pas mal alors?”
> 
> "So, he's handsome, then?"
> 
> “Pas mal? Ouais, il est pas dégueu. Mais il le sait bien, donc ça le rend un peu moins charmant…”
> 
> "Handsome? Hm...yes, very much so. But he knows it very well, too, which makes him less so."


	3. shoes, swears, and sheet masks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for dark humor? no more so than 'redeux', if you've read that.

The good thing about that July is that _—_ rather unexpectedly _—_ Anne gets the entire apartment to herself, for a whole weekend.

While the mode of this discovery was less than ideal (Anne's foot, meeting resistance against an opened rollaway suitcase in the kitchen _—_ Anne,  yelping, Charles spinning around from the fridge, bottle of Advil in hand: _Sorry!_ ).

The news was as welcome as that trip was ( _apparently_ ) impromptu.

Henry, counting out bills at the dining room table with the speed and efficiency of a banker, had led her to guess Las Vegas was the destination before it was confirmed by either of them.

* * *

"That's the hotel we're staying at, and that's the landlord's number," Henry says, pointing to the papers spread out in front of him with air of a military general (while Charles sits next to him, scrolling on his phone screen, with an air of bemusement-- he's chimed in during this whole thing only once, with a pizza delivery menu, several minutes ago), "and we gave you the mail key, right?"

"Yes, when I moved--"

"And you have our numbers, right?"

"Yes, _dads_."

Charles guffaws, and Henry glares at her, then him, lips pursed primly, hands folded expansively upon the table all three encircle.

"What? It's _funny_ …because we're all the same age," Charles says, arms crossed, leaning back.

Henry, face pinched, gets up from his chair.

Charles rolls his eyes and picks his phone back up, getting up from his own seat to follow.

"God, traveling makes you _cranky_ ," Anne overhears him say, "and we haven't even _started_ yet."

"Swear jar."

* * *

Anne might not be in a place in her life where she can afford a last-minute trip with a friend to the gambling capital of the country, but she can, at least, afford a sheet mask.

And, blessedly of all _—_ she has the whole couch to herself as she uses it, and no one there to make fun of her for watching soaps.

* * *

The worst thing that happens that July is—

Well, actually it's two things. 

But one, upon reflection, might have _kind-of-sorta compounded_ the other— or gotten Anne in a more pugnacious frame of mind, at any rate.

Upon reflection, she can admit this.

* * *

The first worst thing begins with a conversation overheard.

Or, rather, a conversation that drowns out the episode of _Friends_ she is _trying_ to watch:

" _How_ do I _look_?" Henry asks (the tone, exasperated, on the edge of 'demands', the emphatic way asked, makes her think it's not the first time he's asked the question in the last minute or so).

Anne glances over her shoulder at the front door, somewhere halfway in between annoyed and bemused because, like… _really? Mirrors are free._

" _Who_ are you going out with?" Charles counters, equaling his emphasis in tone and unhooking a hoodie from the rack near the door.

"None of your _busi_ —how do I _look_?"

"I'll tell you if you tell me."

"I actually hate you."

"I have to go to work," Charles crows, swinging the door open, "love you, too!"

* * *

Henry huffs, rather theatrically, before taking a seat on the opposite end of the couch.

He crosses his arms and fidgets at the waist, visibly fuming.

Anne continues to watch her show, occasionally glancing sideways at him (they do this at the same time, once, and he huffs again and looks away).

"Was there something you wanted to _ask_ , Henry?" 

"Your focus," he says, tightly, "is elsewhere."      

She laughs, shaking her head, muting the television with the remote. To properly examine him, Anne readjusts her seating so that she's angled towards him, one elbow out on the armrest. 

He wears a crimson button-down, tucked into dark jeans. A cashmere sweater-vest of a golden hue covers his chest and waist snugly, save for the v-neck of it.

The shoes are…missing, evidently, navy-socked feet are all that's visible, so:

"Wear brown shoes…in a warm tone, if you have them," Anne says, turning back and unmuting, "otherwise, you look fine."

_A bit preppy for her tastes_ , but evidently that's worked for him as long as it has (and worked _well_ , judging by what she hears from his many overnight guests); so she wouldn't tell him to change it now.

It would also, likely, look a bit gauche on anyone else, but he wears it with enough ease to pull it off.

" _Just_ fine?" Henry asks, smirking as if he's in on his own private joke, examining a nail bed, "That's not what you said before."

"I've never given my opinion on the matter before."

"Well…not to me, anyway."

"Not to you, or anyone else," Anne continues, verging on annoyed.

"Not true."

"Are you _alright_?"

Henry looks over at her, languidly (like a cat, she thinks), scooping up the throw pillow resting against the center cushion and putting it on his lap.

He puts his elbow on it, then his fingers, slowly, against the edge of his jaw, and clears his throat, before saying in a falsetto _(_ _which, as it turns out— not that much higher than his real voice_ _)_

"' _Pas mal_? _Ouais,_ _il est pas dégueu. Mais il le sait bien, donc ça le_ _—'_ "

"Oh, my _God_!" Anne shrieks, springing out of her seat.

"Swear jar."

"Why didn't you _say_ anything?" she demands, standing in front on the front of the television, hands on hips.

"You're done watching this, then?" Henry asks, reaching over for the remote, "If so, can you like _, move_ \--"

Anne turns and jams the on-off key to off, back to her stance but with arms crossed:

"Why would you not say--"

"Why would I not…interrupt your phone call? Most people don't _like_ that, Anne," he says, jamming buttons on the remote himself, futilely, as she keeps body-blocking his attempts to turn it on.

"How… _dare_ you?"

She is so angry that she can feel not only her face warm, but her chest flush, heaving under her pullover. Anne can't remember ever having been this angry before, in living memory, or less afraid.

" _How dare I…what_?" he asks, laughing, switching to French, tossing the remote aside and hoisting himself up from the couch, " _Know French_?"

Anne follows him out into the hall, struggling to keep up with his long strides, switching herself:

" _That is not what I'm_ _—it was sneaky, and underhanded, to show no sign that you were listening—"_

And he hadn't; he'd just sat there, folding laundry, completely poker-faced.

_"_ _You know what, you're **right**_ _,"_ Henry interrupts, spinning around to face her at his bedroom door, snapping his fingers on the last word _, "it's completely **my** fault for having been in the same room, right? Even though I was there first? I_  owe _you_ an apology _, because clearly I was obligated to interrupt you talking shit_ _—"_

"Swear jar!"

_"_ _Not in French, it doesn't count_ _—"_

_"_ _Since when_ _?"_

_"_ _Since always. God doesn't hear it, so_ _—"_

"That's very convenient."

_"_ _It's not 'convenient'…the Bible was translated from Hebrew to Greek to Latin to English. It just is_ _."_

_"_ _And to French_ _."_

_"_ _Mm_ _,"_ he says, waving a hand, _"_ _if God could understand French, all the French would have burst into flame by now_ _._ But it's not…stop deflecting _._ _Tell me more about how it was my responsibility to interrupt you talking shit to say: 'hey, I know you're talking shit._ _'"_

Henry's glare, bright and blue (the hottest part of a candle's flame, scalding as that is), stays intent on her own; even as he twists his doorknob, pushing the door to his bedroom ajar.

_"_ _It has to be untrue_ _,"_ Anne says, slowly, the words like honey in her mouth (oozing and sweet and smooth) _, "_ _for it to qualify as 'talking shit.'_ _"_

_"'_ _L'autre je sais pas ce qu’il fait. Juste qu’il a une collection de petites copines, apparemment,'"_ he repeats, again in that falsetto, from the doorway (Anne moves to face him, leaning against the wall opposite with crossed arms), then, " _I haven't had a girlfriend in ten months_. Shows what you know."

_"_ _And you've been lonely ever since, **hm**_ _?"_ she asks, wide-eyed, mimicking his mockery (except, she's gone too far, maybe, because as that lands the muscle in his jaw jumps and his hand tightens around the doorjamb, _but there's no going back once you've started the dive, so_ ) falsetto herself, settling back into her real voice to say:

_"_ _We do share a wall_ _."_

_"_ _Yes, I know_ _,"_ he says without missing a beat _, "_ _I hear your terrible music almost every night, without fail_ _."_

_"_ _My 'terrible music'_ _?_ Even _screamo_ would be better than what I have to hear when _—"_

" _Tell me, do you listen exclusively to female singers that sound like they want to hang themselves? Or is that just your preferred genre of the moment? "_

Anne hates being caught off-guard more than almost anything else in the world; she hates his perfect and fast-flowing French, and she hates standing here, seething, unable to think of anything else to say.

"You're judgmental," he says, tonelessly, loosening his grip on the doorjamb and sliding it down.

His tone was more akin to a flat observation than an indictment; and it doesn't bother her, particularly— she already knows, but can't help adding a caveat:

"But not wrong."

Henry shrugs, looks down at his feet, then, squinting:

"Well…not about the shoes, anyway. I'm going to steal Charles's," he says, pushing the door closed behind his back and stepping away, "Don't go in my room."

"Why _would_ I—"

" _Don't_!"

* * *

He returns to the hall shortly after, brown dress shoes in hand.

Then, (because he is, _apparently_ , _incapable of not adding_ _one last caveat of his own_ ) before closing his own door shut:

"If you want to secretly talk about how handsome I am, you should avoid doing so in Latin and Spanish as well."

* * *

Anne plays [her music extra-loud that night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nYT3KgKcQHs); so loud she's surprised he doesn't knock on the wall in protest.

He'd returned from his date sometime around 11 (Anne was on a Skype call with her sister in the kitchen, unable as she was to get a good enough connection in her room); looking flushed and happy instead of the wan and despondent she'd been hoping for.

Although, if it hadn't gone well, she figures he would have blamed the shoes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's like a tiiiiiiiny easter egg for who henry's date is (it's in the clothes)...i'll be interested to see if anyone can guess! heh <3
> 
> all italics = french, not italics = english if that wasn't clear. 
> 
> translations to her french convo with her father in the end notes of the previous chapter


	4. armani, crepes, and hedge funds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne hopes—with a touch of spite, but also for the sake of her own sleep schedule—that whoever he’s dating:  
> a) manages to keep his precedentially erratic attention span, and  
> b) is a veritable nun.

On the Saturday after the first worst thing, Anne is awoken by the whirring and grinding of the blender.

This means, by her estimation, that Henry is back from wherever it is he gets damp—sweaty (from a run, carrying nothing but keys), or otherwise (clean—a shower, from the gym, with a duffel bag).

This also means, that it is (she fumbles for her phone, on her nightstand)… _that it is_ …

 _Before seven in the morning_.  

An _evil hour to be awake_ , that only _evil people would be awake, voluntarily, at—especially on a Saturday_.

* * *

After getting dressed, Anne tiptoes out down the hall, and manages not to run into him.

Frankly, it feels like a blessing, as he has been:

> a) Acting like nothing happened, which is infuriating
> 
> b) Peppy, which in the early hours she cannot deal with
> 
> c) Trying to engage her in conversation, which in the early hours she _cannot deal with_

In general, he has been in a better mood since his date.

Having just been woken up, she is not in a good mood—his will only annoy her. It’s been insufferable post-workout before, but combined with the baseline mood of this week…she can’t imagine.

There have been no overnight guests since their fight, since his stressed-over date night…

Anne hopes—with a touch of spite, but also for the sake of her own sleep schedule—that whoever he’s dating both:

> a) manages to keep his precedentially erratic attention span, and
> 
> b) lives as a veritable nun.

* * *

After settling into a table with her cappuccino, Anne peruses the rack for leftover sections of bought newspapers.

She happens upon a few folded pages from the _Wall Street Journal_ and eases them out, refolding one section to read at the table and pushing the other to the opposite end.

> _**Beaufort Management Goes on Charm Offensive** _

It’s an investment management firm, the term ‘hedge fund’ (which she knows, vaguely) is used, the term ‘vulture fund’ (which she’s never heard of) is somewhere farther down in the article.

It’s not really terribly interesting, and more just the sort of thing that she feels that she _should_ know more about, and the bustle of the café has just about won her attention over from the half-hearted skim when she comes across the picture:

Backlit by tinted golden windows, and in profile, is Henry’s father.

_But it might not mean what you think it does._

_And she shouldn’t jump to conclusions._

_But research can’t hurt_ , is Anne’s third coherent thought (there have been a few, fragmented, and also a buzzing in her ears and a feeling in her gut that no, her assumption is correct) after recognizing the picture, and it buoys her as she types the name under the picture in, and then a _comma, net worth_ , and then…

She waits, because it’s _that_ small, low-bandwidth request that is _apparently_ pushing the communal wi-fi over the edge, and waits, putting her phone down, screen up and sipping her drink, and then—

And then, spraying cappuccino out, gracelessly, onto one of the newspaper pages, choking and coughing into a napkin.

* * *

By the time Anne gets her hands over the steering wheel she is seething (not a good combination, generally); seething as it all falls into place, every piece making a little _click_ as it does.

A trip to Vegas last minute, driven there without a thought for gas cost, all that cash counted out— _click_.

The way Henry handles money, the ways she’s seen it—bills wadded, crumpled like trash, twisted among receipts, emptied from his pockets and thrown haphazardly next to piles of his mail on the main table—once, she saw a $20 bill peeking out of the pages of one of his many books on the coffee-table, used as a bookmark— _click_.

And she’d never asked to see the lease, had taken their word that the number they gave her was roughly over a third of what the total rent was… _why had she done that_? She’s not usually so naïve, she curses Harry for lying to her and breaking her heart and thus making her vulnerable, susceptible to being _bamboozled_ … _scammed_.

 _Scammed_ , she thinks, seeing the word in red, her foot becoming leaden against the accelerator.

 _That’s what makes the most sense, and whatever does is usually true_ … _what else adds up_? Their old roommate, leaving so suddenly, must have figured it out. Charles had said… _what_? _Musicians are flaky? Something vague like that_ , but why should she believe him?

She has the briefest of doubts on her analysis, only for a moment, brought upon by the suspended animation and forced reflection inherent in a red traffic light:

_Why would he bartend if living rent-free?_

But she brushes off the frisson of doubt as the light turns green, as soon as she’s in motion again— _to pick up women, perhaps? It wouldn’t be so unbelievable_ , some are natural night-owls after all, and by the time she’s back in a haze of rage and parking haphazardly, wheels well over the white painted line, she’s forgotten all about it anyway.

* * *

Anne shuts the front door gently behind her, not wanting to announce herself.

She’s seized again by a moment of doubt, even in the middle of an emotional tempest—what is to be gained by confrontation? It’s true, she’s sure, but even so she doesn’t have anywhere else to go (she’s not so inconsiderate as to ask to crash at the small apartment her brother lives in with his fiancé _, unless it’s like, a true emergency_ , and Marietta’s roommate is not going to let her stay there again) _and_ she’s already paid three months up front.

On the other hand, the urge to let them _know_ that she _knows_ —that they have not, in fact, succeeded in pulling the wool over her eyes—is strong.

And so, logic and gut battle it out as she thumbs off her across-the-body purse strap and places it on a hook, as she folds up the section with the picture, separating it from another, as she crosses over to the living room.

Henry sits on the couch, split-focused between the soccer game playing on the tv; and the egg whites he eats with a fork and knife, alongside an orange sliced eight ways and a glass filled with green… _something._

“Hey, what’s up?” he asks, smiling, and she realizes she’s been standing here, staring, and also her gaze travels downwards and he’s wearing an Armani sweatshirt ( _lounging_ , in Armani— _Armani_ —when she’s blown through the entirety of her savings to get an edge over the competing roommate applicants), and gut wins.

“Is this your dad?” she asks, section pinched between her thumbs.

“Um,” Henry says, brow furrowed, taking it from where she’s held it in front of his face and scanning it, “where on the page—”

“Is that,” she asks again, rolling the other section up in her hand, and punctuating each word with a thwack against his shoulders, “your… _fucking_ … _dad_?”

“Yeah, it _is_ ,” he says, voice raised, dropping and putting his hands up in front of his face, “why are you even _asking_ , you’ve already _seen_ him!”

“I was curious to see if you’d deny it,” Anne says, throwing the rolled up section onto the other side of the couch, “I guess you didn’t think I’d find out? How _stupid_ do you think I—”

“ _Look_ ,” Henry says, getting up with his plate, walking over to the main table to place it there, turning around with his back against the edge with crossed arms, “if he bought the debt of someone in your family or whatever, then I’m sorry, but it doesn’t have anything to do with me—”

“What?”

“He invests in like, distressed securities, subordinated debt, other things…isn’t that…what you’re mad about?”

“ _No_ ,” Anne says, slowly, fingers at both temples, “I’m just wondering why it is that I’m keeping you in _valet parking_ …and _Armani_.”

“In…?” Henry trails off, then looks down at his chest, pinching the fabric in between his thumb and forefinger, then:

“ _First_ of all,” he says, loudly, following her through the beaded curtain into the kitchen, “this was a _birthday gift_ —”

“Oh yeah?” she asks, swishing water into her empty paper cup and tossing it into the recycling bin, slamming the under-the-sink door, “From _who_?”

“My _mom_ ,” he says, in the same voice _a teenage girl would use to say ‘duh’_ , “and _second_ of all—”

“ _Second_ of all,” Anne interrupts, briefly turning her back to him to shove a bill from her pocket into the glass jar over the dishwasher, “do you _really_ expect me to believe that you charge your best friend rent if you’re a millionaire? I know _I_ wouldn’t.”

“Okay… _wow_ ,” Henry says, taking a deep breath, templing his hands over his nose as he exhales, then dropping them to rest under his chin, softly, “you are,” [louder], “easily,” [louder still], “ _the_ most judgmental person I have _ever_ met—”

“But _not_ wrong!”

“But you _are_ wrong!” he shouts.

“ _Why_ is there yelling?” comes from the entrance to the kitchen, the hanging beads swept aside in one push as Charles walks through, wearing nothing but sweatpants slung low on his hips, “There should be _no_ yelling!”

“Can you please put a shirt on?” Anne asks, hand extended, palm outwards.

“Can you take off yours?”

Anne momentarily focuses her anger on another source, in a glare.

* * *

“ _Not_ a dream?” Charles asks, shaking his head, “Sorry.”

“For reals, _sorry_ ,” he repeats, as her glare only intensifies, putting his hands up, “Now, _what_ are you two fighting about?”

“She thinks you don’t pay rent,” Henry says, head tilted to the side.

“What? _Why_?”

“It just seems a little unbelievable,” she says primly, shrugging, arms crossed, “that’s—”

“Why do you think I go to _work_ , Anne? For _fun_?” Charles asks, incredulous.

“I don’t…know,” she says, a tad more hesitantly than before, “but what about like…his dad—”

“Well, I know about this dad,” Charles says, trying and failing to stifle a yawn, “but it’s not what you—”

“And the Vegas trip, I looked up the hotel you two went to and it’s like… _way_ out of budget for your typical grad student, and all the money you guys brought—”

“I _won_ the hotel stay in a raffle at a charity event,” Henry says, counting off on his fingers, “I _had_ a Shell gift card—again, from my birthday—that I hadn’t used yet that coincided nicely with using it. Most of the casino money we brought wasn’t even mine, but _Charles_ gave it to me from his tips because I’ve given him similar in the past.”

And the past, Charles knows, is something Henry doesn’t even like to touch—much less discuss.

Anne, for her part, looks, if not sheepish, at least discomfited: shoulders slackened, dark gaze lowered, but stance not much changed otherwise.

Likely, she’s misidentified Henry’s angry discomfort as sheer indignation, but then…most do.

“As for my family’s money…I don’t have access to my trust fund until I’m twenty-nine. If I was a millionaire, I wouldn’t be living in a shitty North Hollywood apartment complex,” he says, tossing change from his pocket into the jar, “with a pool that never gets cleaned.”

“I see. Well—”

“Anything _else_?”

Anne shakes her head and Henry exits the room stoically, without another glance.

Both Charles and Anne wince when they hear the front door slam.

“He works two jobs in the summer,” Charles says, grabbing a water from the fridge and closing it with his back, “so…he’s probably just got sort of agitated that you assumed he…didn’t.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Anyway,” he says, brandishing the water bottle back and forth, “back to bed!”

“Sorry to wake you,” she says, uneasily, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Any…advice?”

“Uh, I don’t—I can’t really say,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after taking a swig, “with him…it’s like…hard to know? Sometimes apologizing makes it better, and sometimes worse. I’ve experienced both, honestly, so…”

“Got it. Thanks.”

* * *

The days pass awkwardly after that; she and Henry tend to be gone for work (whatever his is—she doesn’t doubt, anymore, that he works, feels a flush of shame when she remembers he overheard ‘ _L'autre je sais pas ce qu’il fait’_ ; then indignation when she remembers he could have left the room when he overheard the topic of roommates come up) during the week at the same time, home at the same time. If he’s not out of his room, then she’s out in the kitchen or main area, whenever she’s in her room must be when he’s out because she hardly ever sees him.

She wants to apologize, then doesn’t, then does—she doesn’t think it’s crazy or unreasonable that the evidence led her to the conclusion it did, then on the other hand, maybe she was ready to be angry at him anyway because her pride can’t condone being teased…

It’s a moot point, because she never has the opportunity to apologize when she has the motivation to do so.

Or rather, she does, technically, have enough opportunity — she could knock on the door ( _too confrontational_ ), or text him ( _too pathetic_ —especially because they live in such close quarters, although she did on occasion, as a teenager, call her siblings when they were upstairs to bring something down when she couldn’t be bothered…)—just not enough temerity to use the opportunities as such.

* * *

Anne’s afraid it’s going to go on like that forever; but the Friday morning after the Second Worst Thing, the ice seems to have thawed enough for Henry to not leave the same room she goes into.

Which might be, in this case, because it’s the kitchen and he seems to be making something at the stove.

She moves around tentatively in case that is the reason, pulling a glass from the cupboard and orange juice from the fridge, taking a seat at one of the backless chairs along the countertop with it.

“Crepe?” he asks.

“Um…”

Anne looks up from the feed on her cell, surprised, then glances to see the plate at the right of the pan is full of them.

“Sure?”

“You don’t need to get up,” he says, waving a hand before placing one on a plate with tongs.

He brings the plate over with utensils on it, and then several bowls of fillings (diced strawberries, whipped cream, brown sugar), before returning to the stove and busy himself with making more.

And it registers, finally (she’s a bit sleepy) that he’s playing [music in a foreign language](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zBKO8GrlBVM) (and also, singing it, somewhat under his breath) as he does so.

“ _Silbermond_ ,” he says, gesturing to the speakers before he returns to the stove, “you like?”

“It’s...different.”

Anne pulls a napkin from the basket on the counter, in a sort of surreal haze ( _does he forgive and forget or just like…literally forget_?)

“I think the lead singer has a pretty voice,” he says, shrugging, “They topped the Austrian charts. And some others.”

“Oh…cool,” she responds, at a loss of how else to do so, but luckily the stiltedness is alleviated by someone else:

“Were you _singing_?” Charles asks, shuffling in, hair awry and eyes near-shut.

“Yes,” Henry says, brightly, smiling.

“ _Dude_.”

“Crepe?”

“I mean…yeah, man,” he says, taking the seat next to Anne, “I’m not gonna say no to _that_.”

Henry brings one over on a plate again, switching to humming as he returns to the counter near the stove, taking some dishes and moving them to the sink.

“So… _you’re_ in a freakishly good mood,” Charles remarks, filling his own up with sugar.

“Perhaps,” Henry says, taking a seat at one of the chairs opposite their side, mug in hand.

“Any particular reason?” he asks.

“I have a date tonight.”

“Oh, yeah? With who?”

Anne watches the exchange with interest, surreptitiously picking at the remains on her dish.

Henry drinks, slowly, then fidgets a bit, as if weighing his options, then:

“Anika.”

“Anika…” Charles repeats, nose wrinkled in concentration for a beat; and then, dark brows ratcheting upwards, “Anika…the _German_?”

 _Oh_ , Anne realizes, [_**that’s** what’s playing_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zBKO8GrlBVM), and… _why it’s playing_ , she supposes.

“Yes,” he answers, smiling again, picking up a cut strawberry from the bowl.

“The one you kept _losing_ to?”

“Ha… _yeah_ ,” he says, softly, dreamily, twirling the fruit in hand.

Henry gets up then, suddenly, taking the mug with him, and then announces (to no one in particular, it seems):

“I…am in love.”

And with that, he leaves the room.

“Right,” Charles mutters (similarly, it seems, to no one in particular), folding his napkin, “God help us.”

“What do you mean?” Anne asks, laughing, “He seems happy.”

“It’s…he…” Charles exhales, looks upwards, then:

“You’ll see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> easter egg from last: 'The King was wearing “a gowne of ryche Tyssue [cloth of gold] lyned with Crymosyn” -- Edward Hall's description of the marriage of Anne of Cleves and Henry VIII
> 
> longer chapter to make up for he last one being on the shorter side! <3

**Author's Note:**

> so...hm. 
> 
> this is...i don't really have a plot for it? it's meant more to be a writing warm-up, as in that hopefully writing it stretches my imagination enough for me to finally update my longer WIP's.
> 
> this is more like...i have backstories set up for both Henry and Anne for this specific verse that will be revealed over the course of time in the story.
> 
> but it's probably going to be less 'plot', persay, and more like glances/snippets of days in the life in this particular verse, if that makes sense?
> 
> this is basically just for funsies, and it is mad-inspired by essequamvideri24's work flatmates-- i would probably never have written this if i hadn't read, and fallen in love with, that work.


End file.
